


hated, loved

by wearegoingtodie



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dehumanization, Emotional Hurt, Family Issues, GUYS ITS NOT A VENT FIC FOR ONCE, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, Violent Thoughts, others are mentioned - Freeform, techno angst brainrot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 21:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30044964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearegoingtodie/pseuds/wearegoingtodie
Summary: Things only seemed to be getting worse.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	hated, loved

Things got worse before better. Logically, Techno knew that. He knew that’s how antidepressants work. He knew that the tiny ovular pills wouldn’t magically cure him. Techno knew all of that and more, so why was he still let down when his head still screeched for blood, when his instincts urged him to run to the nearest bridge or cliff and just jump-

He couldn’t even die, so why did it really matter if he jumped off or slit his wrists. Phil shouldn’t care, shouldn’t have spent so much time and money on Techno when even if the boy was torn apart limb by limb, he would come back. It was stupid. Phil was stupid. And fuck him and Wilbur for their smiles and their reassurances and trying to drag him out of his room, fuck Tommy for always knowing how to make him laugh while also knowing how to be a calming and silent presence, fuck everyone.

Fuck everyone because he would feel so guilty everytime he came back home, obviously resurrected. He would feel so guilty whenever Wilbur teared up as another scar was revealed. He would feel so, so guilty whenever he had to face Phil and his therapist and explain to Tommy where he’d been for four days and when he had to make up with Dream because he missed another duel.

Half of Techno thought he should feel guilty. He saw the pain he was causing people, and he was doing nothing to fix it. He saw the way his family looked at him and he felt the way his crown buried into his skull and sunk into his brain, he knew they were all worried. Concerned. The other half of him just wanted to be free. To die and die and continue leaving, because the feeling was freeing, and the voices calmed whenever blood was spilled.

It should be better to kill himself rather than other people, right? That’s better, right? Techno thought it was at least-he couldn’t stomach killing the people he saw day-per-day and he rarely gravitated towards other people when he was in those moods. It shouldn’t count as violence if it was him against him. He didn’t-he didn’t MATTER. 

He saw the ways people around him disagreed. He saw the ways Philza would look at him with concern, would buy him a new gold earring. Techno saw the ways that Wilbur would leave his door open so Techno could hear his guitar more clearly, and he saw the way his brother’s favourite sweater would make its way into his room after Techno had a bad day. He saw the way Tommy and Tubbo would annoy him until he left the house with them to go and babysit (he’d never admit it, but he enjoyed it) them and Ranboo. He saw the care in the way the infamous Dream Team would sit with him at lunch, quiet but still caringly humorous. He saw it in the baked goods Skeppy and Bad brought over, and in the ways the world seemed better after all his loved ones were near.

But regardless of that care, Techno couldn’t help but feel...empty. Empty and aching in ways that left his head pounding and blood rushing with the urge to make it stop. Headaches would come and go no matter how many soft smiles were thrown his way and no matter how many pills were swallowed. The voices would calm with people, slowly but surely, but always returned once they left, twice as loud and twice as incentive. Techno had always been apathetic, but this was something else. He was nothing, now. He was fading, disappearing, becoming a ghost of himself.

Techno was a zombie, a living and walking and breathing but all-too-dead version of himself. He was no longer the bloodthirsty yet mythology-obsessed brother of Wilbur and Tommy, and no longer the emotionally repressed yet still loving son of Philza. No longer the friend who was able to give insightful and caring yet carefully shielded speeches. There were so many ways to describe how he was, and how he used to be.

Things only seemed to be getting worse. Things always seemed to be getting worse, and they never felt like they were getting better. Maybe that was his fault. Maybe it was his fault the voices whispered and shouted and craved blood, and maybe it was his fault his grades slipped and his family was tired of dealing with him. Maybe it was always, maybe it always has been his fault. His brain was his own, so its faults were his own as well. 

The voices were his, and their actions were his all the same. He was a killer, a bloodthirsty monster, inhuman and not worth the caring time people spent on him. Long since he’d been adopted, long since he’d had friends, he always knew that. He was fucked up, he was wrong, he was evil and he was a monster, a demon.

He didn’t deserve his family. Techno didn’t DESERVE them. He shut them out. Impulsively. They would eventually stop worrying, and he would decay in his room, alone, always alone, like he deserved. He would rot from the inside out, his blood slow and eventually freeze over and get thinner and thicker at the same time, his skin would freeze and peel back and his eyes sink into his skull and his face would gray. Techno’s hair would fall out, and his teeth would crack and decay as his body stiffened and froze.

Dead. Forever encased in his own misery, but he would always come back, always cursed and doomed to return back to concern and care and hatred and violence. Part of him missed the fighting rings. Missed the mindless violence, and missed the stabbing and blood and bruises that blossomed beneath his hands. Honestly, he just missed the familiarity of hatred. No one would fight him, here. No one would hate him or stab him or kill him, here, they refused to, even when they fought, they never fought to die.

It was sickening. It was saddening. Techno missed the comfort in being hated, missed the comfort in hating. Missed the comfort in dying, and feeling no guilt. Fuck them. (He loved them.)


End file.
